


Ion

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, a touch of schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-01
Updated: 2005-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaining and losing a negative charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ion

Light from a street lamp danced shadows through the fluttering curtain onto the wooden floor, window left open to the cool, charged air of an approaching storm. A stroboscope of lightning periodically drowned it out, throwing the entire room into harsh relief; the dresser with it’s messy top, an overlarge chair sitting between the window and a crowded bookcase, and the bed with two figures lying on it.

Curt wasn’t sure what woke him. Maybe the play of light, or the grumbling of thunder, or even the negative ions that always seemed to excite his blood whenever a storm was brewing. But once he was awake, he knew he wasn’t going back to sleep.

Easing from the bed so that he wouldn’t wake Arthur, he sat in the chair and stared out the window at the chiaroscuro made by storm and street and lamp, but saw only his own thoughts there.

\----“Sorry, Curt, but my mother says I can’t play with you any more.”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… well, with your family… you know how it is.”

“Yeah. I do.”----

As the storm came closer, the grumbles of thunder gave way to booms and cracks. The itchy feeling that storms gave him was increasing, making it hard for him to sit still. He looked at Arthur, but he was still sleeping soundly. Like he did most nights.

Curt wondered again at how he’d come to be here. Here in this house that they had picked out together. Where his clothes hung beside Arthur’s in their closet, and his knickknacks nestled among Arthur’s, standing alongside ones they’d bought together. He was much more used to seeing his things by themselves. Alone.

It wasn’t that he’d never shacked up with someone before, but never really long enough to get to the knickknack stage. Well, he’d been with Brian longer than this, but Brian hadn’t been the knickknack type. Or the non-human knickknack type, anyway.

Arthur’s peaceful slumber gave way to a slight stirring. He didn’t wake, but his eyes moved rapidly as he dreamed. He was lying with a hand curled beneath his sleep-flushed cheek, so very innocent. Curt smiled, not taken in at all. But, still, it was a pretty sight.

All color washed out of the scene as Arthur’s body was lit by a flare of arc light. The storm was almost overhead now; streaks of lightning flashed with thunder riding their wake. Curt’s nerves seemed caught in their wake, too.

\---Curt pulled hard at the restraints, but they weren’t budging. The technician stepped closer to the gurney, electrodes in his hand. Curt twisted his head, trying to evade, avoid, delay, but he was held still, the electrodes applied, and, in no time, he was screaming in the name of therapy.---

One streak of lightning hadn’t even died out before the next one appeared; the bass boom of thunder a continuous knell.

\---Curt was thrashing on stage to the music from his guitar, from his head, when the first bottle smashed in front of him.

“Faggot!”

He managed to duck a few more, but one finally connected, his head ringing as a red deluge washed over his eyes. He grinned, took off his guitar, flipped the audience off, and dived into the crowd.---

A blast of light, followed by a blast of noise, and the street lamp flickered and died, the absence of its light not darkening the storm-lit night at all.

\---As the man pounded into his body, Curt struggled against him. “Fucker. You think that hurts? I can barely feel it.”

_“Curt… I have some bad news.”_

A fist smashed into his back, and the cock slammed into him even harder. Curt pushed back into it. “I can’t feel it. Hit harder.”

_“Brian’s dead. He was shot at his concert last night.” Jack sounded near tears._

One hand on his head, pushing his face into the floor. The other smacking his ass in counterpoint to the brutal thrusts. “More.”

_But Curt couldn’t cry. He wouldn’t._

A few more thrusts, strong enough to pull Curt’s knees off the floor, to slam his head into the wall, and the man came. He pulled out, leaving more pain behind him, and wiped his cock off in Curt’s hair. As he left, he called behind him, “I hope that was what you wanted. I certainly enjoyed myself.”

And Curt curled into a ball, lying on the dirt and urine stained bathroom floor, lying in a puddle of semen, sweat and blood, lying in the mess of his own life. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was what he’d asked for. Because as his body trembled in shock and pain, he could cry. And he could pretend that it wasn’t because of Brian.---

The storm was moving away now, the dark of the power-less street slowly winning out over the storm’s light.

\---Arthur’s red lips slid up and down Curt’s cock. His cheeks hollowed further as he applied suction, the twisting tongue distorting the concavity. Curt was as turned on by the sight as he was by the suction, and when Arthur tugged hard on his balls, Curt came in a blinding rush.

He finally caught up with his breath and his brain, and found Arthur lying in bed beside him, a smug smile on his face. Curt smiled in return, running a finger over those lips. “You should go easier on an old man.”

Arthur shook his head, unwilling to have that conversation again. “I like hard.”

Curt’s smile turned wistful. “You must if you like being with me.”

Again a shake of the head. “Why do you say those things? Do I look like I’m unhappy being with you?”

“No, but I don’t think you’re thinking things through. You have friends. You have a good job. Coming out is going to be hard enough on those things without adding me into the mix. Most of the people you know are reporters, it’s not like it would be hard for them to find out about me.”

Arthur sighed. “For one thing, I have acquaintances, not friends. It’s hard to make friends if you don’t show your real face to anyone. Two, I no longer care if people don’t like me because I’m gay. It took me a long time to get to this point, and you had a lot to do with getting me here. And that’s my point three. Curt, you’ve come so far from your past. You don’t do drugs anymore. You aren’t promiscuous. You have a career you like, which you’re good at. Why isn’t that good enough?”

Curt nodded. “For me it is. I was doing Ok before we got together. But I don’t want all that shit in my past to ruin things for you.”

Arthur kissed him. “They won’t. I want this. I want you. And I won’t let you pay any more for what your brother did.” And kissed him again.

Between the conviction in Arthur’s voice, and the blood supply once again leaving his brain, Curt had no choice but to believe.---

The lightning was now a firefly flicker in the distance, the thunder a rumbling coda. Curt felt the dark and quiet seep into him, calming excited nerves, agitated memories.

\---Arthur stood in their kitchen, chopping vegetables in a distracted manner. He was holding forth on President Reynolds, the opinions that he kept professionally in check at work being allowed free rein here at home. “And that’s why he’s a bad president. But no matter how many times I report on the problems with his administration, people just ignore it. All I ever hear is what a nice guy he is. As if that has anything to do with how well he’s doing his job.”

Curt, sitting on the kitchen counter beside him, though well away from the knife, smiled at how naïve Arthur still was. “You act as if the truth matters.”

Arthur frowned at him. “Of course the truth matters. If it didn’t, there wouldn’t be reporters.”

Curt actually laughed at that. “Sure there would, because people need to believe that they’re hearing the truth, even when they do everything they can to avoid it. And reporters are good at rewriting the past to make it a better story, or ignoring facts for the same reason.”

“You really don’t like reporters, do you?” Arthur was looking down, now, his bangs partially obscuring his face, but Curt could still see the furrow in his brow.

“Mostly, no. But to tell you the truth…” Curt smiled at Arthur’s snort. “There is one I’m rather fond of.” He reached out and dragged Arthur into the V of his legs, wrapping his arms loosely around his waist. He kneaded the firm ass that was so conveniently near at hand.

Arthur looked up through his bangs, smiling, causing Curt’s heart to quicken and his cock to stir. “You know that some reporters do report the truth. And some people actually want to know it.”

A nod. “Some.”

Pulling Curt to the edge of the counter, Arthur rubbed against his hardening erection. “I love you, even though you are cynical as hell, and that’s the truth.”

“I love you.”---

Sitting in the dark of their bedroom, in the chair they’d picked out together, working hard and sweating to get it into the room, then fucking hard and sweating over the side of it, Curt thought about love. It wasn’t anything like he’d expected.

He’d felt passion before, Lord knows he’d felt that. It had scorched him, set his blood to boiling, the finest kind of high. He’d felt contentment before. It was peaceful, not requiring anything of him. Though now that he thought on it, maybe it had been more resignation than contentment, but, still, it hadn’t been so bad. But love? It had been so much more difficult than he’d thought. It had been uncomfortable; too much, too raw, too new. Like that first rush of euphoria after a hit, like playing with his dick after he came… it felt so good that it hurt. And it had scared him in a way that pain had never been able to.

But he’d acclimated, as always. And he’d learned to handle being happy. Oh, he still had days where he pitched fits, and thought dark, violent thoughts. But the storms passed more quickly now, and came less. And the days where he laughed and didn’t think about anything but the day at hand came more.

Out of the dark, a voice came. “Curt?”

So much emotion in just one word; love, worry, need. So much emotion in climbing back in their bed and taking the hand that reached for him. “Go back to sleep. The storm’s over.”

/story  



End file.
